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Text:

Wind-driven flakes beat a rhythm on my skinAs the air recites its blank hexameters of snow,But the storm’s chant is in a tongue I do not knowAnd the poetry of air in a meter I cannot scan.

Who will read the river as a hieroglyph,An illuminated letter on the manuscript of dawn,As ideogram what wind has chiseled in the cliff,All in an alphabet from which no words are drawn?

The world’s a book, a butterfly’s a poem on a pageWe try to read, but with conviction in the boneOf a depth we cannot sound, a drift we cannot gauge,Of text and context and quiddity, and no Rosetta Stone.